After dinner, David shows me to a guest bedroom. It’s two doors down from the master suite where the crew hung his cousin’s picture. Unlike his room, this one’s done in ivory, including a four-poster bed. The floor is some sort of dark wood, gleaming softly under the lights. A small desk and a chair are set in the sitting area, along with a plush armchair, perfect for curling up with a book.
“Where are the washer and dryer?” I ask.
“At the end of the hall. The same machine does both, so you don’t have to move the clothes around. Just hit the button, and it’ll do everything automatically.” He gestures to my left. It’s the opposite direction from his bedroom. “The laundry room is stocked and has everything you need. And there’s a bathrobe in the closet here if you want.”
“Thanks. Good night, David.”
“Good night.” But instead of leaving, he stands there like he has something more to say.
I bite my lip, nerve endings firing up. Is it my imagination, or is he leaning just slightly forward? Is he going to kiss me like he on Saturday, when we were role-playing?
My belly flutters. I can’t decide what to do. Should I close the distance?
“Sweet dreams,” he says.
“Okay,” I say blankly.
His mouth quirks into a smile. I almost smack my forehead. Really, Erin? “Okay”?
Then, like the gentleman that he is, he turns and exits, closing the door behind him.
I watch him disappear, my chest oddly tight, my belly settling uncomfortably. Am I disappointed he didn’t try to kiss me? But then, I didn’t really want him to press his lips on mine, did I?
I shake my head. I’m being weird. If I told anybody what I’m feeling, they’d call me insane. And that is the absolute last thing I ever want to be.
Wrapped in the bathrobe David mentioned, I go start the laundry, since it’d be gross to wear the same set of clothes and dirty underwear again tomorrow. Thankfully, none of my things requires dry cleaning. I always check before buying. And since all my clothes look sort of the same—inoffensive pale tops and pencil skirts in gray or black—probably no one will even notice I’m in the same outfit two days in a row. One of the advantages of not dressing to stand out.
Then I head back to the bedroom. The shower in the guest bedroom has toiletries from the Ritz. I smile at the small bottles. Somehow it strikes me as adorable that David collects soaps and shampoos and conditioners from the high-end hotels he stays at on business. He even filched some lotion.
My hair still damp, I slather on the lotion—super rich—and put the bathrobe on again. It’s too small to be one of his. Probably something he got in case his female cousins visit.
Once I have a clean and dry set of clothes—and nothing to do—I go to bed and lie in the dark. I pull the sheets closer, then wonder if David has ever used them himself. On the other hand, he wouldn’t put unwashed sheets on a guest bed. No way of knowing, since I can’t smell anything.
But then, I haven’t been able to since the car accident where Mom and I sustained head injuries. Although people kept quiet around me, I heard whispers that Mom was in a coma and might not make it. Thankfully, they turned out to be wrong. It wasn’t her time yet. Her time came when she decided to go.
I survived, without the ability to smell. But that’s a small trade-off. It’s been inconvenient, since I have to be very diligent about replacing batteries in smoke detectors and using timers for cooking to avoid burning. On the other hand, I’m also lucky because I never get headaches from excessive perfume like some people in the office. And I never have to smell anybody’s BO.
Of course, it also means that I need to worry about my own BO. Which is why I’m a fanatic about personal hygiene.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I turn and place a hand under the pillow to get more comfortable. Maybe I’m having trouble relaxing because I’m in a strange bed. Or maybe it’s because I’m at my boss’s house. I never thought I’d be in a situation like this. Fake engaged for three months!
My stomach hurts again. I put a hand over it…and then I feel that wet sensation you can’t do anything about.
Shit.
I jump out of bed, flick on the light on the bedside table and plunge my hand into my purse for my emergency tampons. I’m a couple of days early. Argh. My period has been pretty regular over the last half a year, so why does it have to pick now to go haywire?
I can’t find the tampons. Annoyed, I upend the bag, dumping everything on the hardwood floor, then I go through my things. No, no, no, no… Come on…
No tampons.
This has to be some k
ind of cosmic joke. I leap to my feet and go through every cabinet and shelf in the bathroom and closet. Maybe David has a stash of feminine hygiene products, just in case. But no. Nothing. The only thing I find is more towels and toilet paper.
I’m not familiar with this area of the city at all. With my phone gone, there’s no GPS to look up a drugstore. And even if I could, I’m not confident I could drive and shop without making a literal bloody mess of it.
And I won’t be able to sleep either, not without turning the bed into a pool of blood. Okay, maybe not quite a pool. More like a small pond or a puddle. But ugh.